Silver
by Peridot Tears
Summary: It's so complicated. Just complicated. All Shishido wants is for Choutarou to be happy. All Choutarou wants is that pretty classmate over there. All they will want is each other. Silver Pair. Rating will change to M in due time.
1. Prologue

He was too late.

He realized that much, as soon as he beheld the sight that terrified him so strongly: his partner—his partner, who was respectful and mild, and would do anything for him—hurtling towards him drunkenly.

His partner.

His partner.

_His_ partner.

_His_ partner—drunk.

_Drunk,_ as if his life depended on chugging so much of the thing he had been warned against in a lifetime.

Had his grief been so harsh? so painful? so hurting? So much that he would _drink_? Drink that much sake...so much that it intoxicated him deeply. So much, because he was—

"You...," he growled, inhumanly, the quarter-full bottle sloshing up clear liquid. "You..." _His_ partner was saying this. _His_. To _him._ "You...," he repeated; the drunken one's partner stared in horror, never having seen the younger boy this bad. "You..." The older boy held back a shudder, immobilized, as his beloved partner threw the bottle roughly at him—it hit his head, broke with a piercing crack.

"You..." It must have been made to be a scream, but it came off with a harsh grounding feeling. "You...it—

"Your...fault...," he managed; tears leaked out of his eyes as he said this, even in his drunken state; his eyes were dancing, blazing with a furious light...almost manic.

"All...your fault..." The older boy could feel his head throbbing where the glass bottle had slammed against his head; could feel the cold aftereffect of the wound it left.

And the blood. The bittersweet, sickeningly metallic scent filled the air, defiled it. Blood. All blood. It poured out of his head in rivers: the boy already felt dizzy, his skull was on fire, he smelled the dirtied air, and through it all—

"You..."

"Me," the boy whispered, and he believed it. "Me."

His drunken partner gave a furious howl at the sound of his voice, and slammed his trembling fist against the the bleeding boy's head. It was strong, a far cry from his flimsy voice. "Yes, you...y—yours."

The older boy could feel his heart, his heart pumping frantically to replace the blood being lost; as his head slammed against hard pavement. A shock went through his body; he was in pain, harsh pain. But nothing could replace the knife of ice twisting its way into his chest; it all came back to him—the last few months...all leading to this remorse. And he could hear the word echoing through his head as oblivion attempted to claim him—"Yours. Your fault. All your fault..."

"Yes," he wheezed; bile and blood rose in the back of his throat, and he found speaking difficult. His partner roared and hit him hard. The bleeding boy already felt his life slipping... He shut his eyes, squeezing them when he felt the tears—not for himself, but the boy causing his agony. This boy... It was his own fault this boy was here, his own fault for any of the events occurring presently. "Yes...it's my fault;" and he believed his own words.

"I—you..." The younger boy slapped him, slapped him so hard that his head snapped sideways from the impact; it burned, burned like his eyes. "I—HATE—YOU!" Fighting the tears, the dying boy struggled to turn his head again; his body was broken, and it was his own fault. All his fault. The younger boy had a right to hate him. It was time to face that truth and confess, to admit—

"I'm sorry," and he found that he was sobbing—_he,_ "I'm sorry..." He paused in case the drunken boy would hit him again in a rage.

When the hurt did not come, he murmured, brokenly, "I love you..." His eyes met the furious pair of dark amber orbs that were usually so mild. It was slight relief that he would see them again prior to his death...

His hand twitched, as if he were longing to reach up and touch those glowing eyes, eyes that were as broken as he.

"I'm sorry..." Oblivion gave a fierce tug; Death was getting impatient for his arrival. The boy begged, innerly, for a few more moments. Just a moment more, and he would join the black nothingness for all time—or Kami in the sky. And he knew he didn't deserve the latter.

"I'm sorry," he half-choked, "and I love you...I love you..."

His chest heaved with effort as his heart slowed, finally succumbing to the fact that its work was done.

"...I...love..." He laid his head back, and shuddered. Then stilled.


	2. The Sound of Your Heart

__

_**PT: On Pointless but Original Talking's Challenges! thread, I took up The Tensai Fan Girl's challenge :D Er...Nothing else important, except that I would gladly accept any constructive critism. I suspect that this will turn out to be my darkest work—unless you count this TezuFuji vampire three-shot I have yet to publish, though I doubt it—and will be rated M with sexual themes. Not to mention drug use—alcohol. There will also be abuse/ violence. Some masochism... Maybe some blood too...-Shot for a sick, twisted mind full of sadism-**_

_**The reason I didn't post this note in the prologue is because I planned this for the prologue, but I decided on starting with something that happens later in the plot. By that time, I had already written about half of this chapter. Besides, my author notes tend to be pretty long, and seeing the prologue's length, this might've been taking up about half the entry. Yeah... Enjoy reading this :D**_

_**Don't forget the critism!**_

_Disclaimer: Tenipuri-ness is Konomi's—all KONOMI'S!!!_

_Plot ideas belong to Jazzy -bows-_

--

_Three months earlier..._

She was perfect. Perfect.

She was perfect, and that was the truth.

Everywhere she went, he wanted to follow; he wanted to look at her, hear her laugh that equaled a songbird's chorus; watch her move with a gazelle's grace; revel at the sight of her—her and her curled orange hair that spilled over with that flicking movement; with a blaze's spread. He would catch himself staring at her during class, her and her clear eyes that shone with their onyx fire. Her. Her and her perfect facial features—

Yes, Ootori Choutarou was in love.

In love with someone who did not love him back, no less. In love with a Rosaline.

Rosaline—yes, that fit as perfectly as she was perfect. He was Romeo, she was Rosaline. Choutarou was Romeo Montague; and the cold-hearted, yet perfect, Rosaline was Kishimoto Hana.

Choutarou and Hana. Romeo and Rosaline. The former as impossible as the latter. One can wonder—Choutarou and Hana, Choutarou and Hana, once, twice, thrice...a million times. Despite all of it, the result is still the same, no matter how much Choutarou craved it—Choutarou was Romeo and Hana was Rosaline. He wanted to always be in the air she breathed. She did not give two cents about his very existence. He and she.

Ootori Choutarou and Kishimoto Hana were simply never in the same sentence.

Choutarou cursed Shakesphere silently, and sympathized with Romeo—who, as he now realized, must have felt as hurt as he.

But Juliet, what of Juliet?

Juliet, who completed love's situation, who loved Romeo; Romeo, who loved her back. They, who could never live without the other. She, Juliet Capulet, who melted the cold ice around the recesses of his heart in his most dire time of need.

Yet there was no Juliet.

Juliet, who was supposed to be there. Juliet, who wasn't there.

Choutarou hated himself for loving someone so cold; hated Hana for being so perfect; hated his unknown Juliet for never coming and releasing the iron bands around his heart.

Hana, perfect Hana, whom he hated and loved. She was his drug, he knew—his drug that he hated, for it defiled him; and he loved her. He loved her. Loved her, loved her, her and her perfection. She was perfect; she was a drug; she was a goddess.

Choutarou had often read, in his free time, books of fantasy that spoke of faraway places, of vampires, of dragons, of vampires, of magic, of vampires, of romance and heroes...and were vampires mentioned? Vampires, vampires who preyed on blood; vampires who were the terrifying creatures of the night. Those who prowled in the light of the silver moon.

Vampire—that word could be used to describe Hana; Hana who was gorgeous and god-like as a vampiress.

She who was a perfection; an angel; a drug; a goddess; a vampiress.

Choutarou could never get enough of her. It was an addiction.

And by God, Kami-sama—whatever deities that ruled the skies—was the addiction strong.

It was enough to drive Choutarou mad.

Ootori Choutarou, Kishimoto Hana...Hana, Choutarou...Kishimoto, Ootori...

Romeo...Rosaline...Rosaline, Romeo...Juliet...

Choutarou, Hana...Kishimoto Hana, Ootori Choutarou...Shishido Ryou...

--

"Ootori-kun." Silence. "Ootori-kun!" Nothing. "Ootori..." No answer. "Ootori!" No reaction.

"Ootori!" the teacher repeated sharply. The rest of the class stared on. The reaction she earned was nothing

but silence like before.

The teacher clenched her fist; years of tutoring experience was enough to get her accustomed to a life of disciplining disobedient students; but Ootori was not one of those students.

He was a teacher's favorite—he who did all his work with diligence; he who got high marks and participated in class with intelligence and pleasing obedience. He hardly ever stepped out of line, and he was always well-mannered, to everyone's pleasure. It was the wildest dream and wish of anyone in the career of teaching.

To have such a student to behave with even a toe out of line was unacceptable as it was an untamed nightmare. Not to mention, a stunning shock.

The teacher was already bewildered and jolted to her favorite—yes, she chose favorites, but she did not let her favoritism show—student's misbehaviour.

She presently bit her lip, and, as she rapped her ruler smartly against her desktop, said, loudly, "Ootori Chouta—"

She stopped as the silver-haired boy jumped with a start; his head snapped to her direction and his eyes focused on her. It was a sudden movement. So she had finally gotten to him.

For a moment he merely stared at her, and his eyes were far from glassy. His attention was on her, and her only.

Yet, after the moment, the faraway look entered his eyes again, and for the first time the teacher noticed something about them—something sad. Depressed.

Perhaps this was what had caused Ootori's unfocused behaviour, the teacher mused; and sympathy rose in her stomach slightly, wondering what would make the boy act so.

Then he seemed to snap out of his reverie when his concerned neighbor gave him a sharp prod to the side.

With a jolt, Ootori's focus was again fixed upon his teacher. His eyes widened about a fraction of an inch and he exclaimed, quickly, "H-Hai, sensei?"

Everyone swiveled their heads around to see their silver-haired classmate, who flushed when he realized what was going on.

The teacher sighed inwardly. She vaguely felt deep concern, but cleared her throat and declared, "Ootori-kun, pay attention in class from now on."

A slight snigger passed around those who were easily humored; the teacher wondered if they had an ounce of sympathy within their souls. And Ootori flushed, if anything, deeper.

"S—Sorry, sensei," he gushed out quickly.

Another sigh nearly escaped the teacher. "Aaa.

"Ootori, translate this." She tapped the English words she had written across the blackboard in her fine handwriting.

"O...Oh." Ootori hastily pasted his eyes upon the dusty white letters.

He didn't say anything. He was probably thinking, the teacher presumed.

Silence.

Silence again.

And eventually the clock ticked on, hands moving at the slightest of the slight, and yet reaching such a distance.

The silence wore on. The time lengthened with it. Each commencing with painful slowness.

One minute ticked by. Sensei frowned. It did not take so long for Ootori to answer so simple a question, did it? No, it most definitely didn't.

Two minutes...and Ootori seemed to figdet at the slightest.

Thrice the seconds hand passed over the number twelve on the clock's face, and the teacher's brow furrowed into a frown; her patience was beginning to wear.

Four times—was Ootori sweating? The beads began on his brow.

Five minutes had died when at last the teacher pointed at the words. "Ootori," she said, struggling to contain her unnatural impatience, "please translate these English words into Japanese. _The boy and girl went shopping for a red purse," _she recited, in the western tongue. Her Asian accent flowed with the words, but the hue of a Japanese tongue was very faint.

Much to a surprise that should not have been there, Ootori shook his head. The teacher's frown deepened and she raised an eyebrow. Ootori looked apologetic as he said, "Sensei...I don't know."

A bolt of stunned exasperation—and hard shock—jolted her momentarily upon processing what her favorite student was saying.

Still looking extremely sorry, Ootori lowered his eyes. The teacher could have easily excused him, with sympathy—she was terribly urged to do so. "Sumenai, sensei," he half-mumbled. And he meant it.

"I've half a mind to send you to detention." And she didn't.

"Sumen."

The English teacher sighed and put her ruler (which, she finally noticed, she had been holding with an iron grip throughout the whole episode) down, before saying to the rest of the class, "Anyone who can help him out?"

Several hands shot into the air, a good number of them waving with eagerness. The English teacher gave an inward sniff—what had they been doing when she first asked the question, when no one even twitched? Hoping she was still giving off a nonchalant, very sensei-like, aura, she selected one of the hands at random. "Takahashi."

As the boy's voice droned forward with a flawless translation, the English teacher, with quick and sharp eyes, caught sight of Ootori; he looked down, flushed an unnatural red for him, looked one way anxiously, then back at his seemingly interesting shoes.

She was sharp enough to follow his gaze to a fair enough point before losing track.

Despite that, her questions were answered fairly enough. Her conclusion was nearly clear as day.

Ootori liked Kishimoto.

--

Shishido looked around, trying with great effort not to feel worried.

In the middle of tennis practice, Hyoutei was harsh, and he liked it that way. In a way, it showed that his goal was nearing, closer...closer...a chance to bring Hyoutei to Japan's Number One—and have a right to be proud of it, because he helped; played in the doubles and won. Won.

_Tch! _he snorted at himself inwardly. And he'd already suffered losses that had brought him more than enough shame—he had even sacrificed the hair, the hair he was so proud of, after dropping from the regulars...and all that intense training. He'd already lost too much. It was more than enough for someone like him to be ashamed of.

"Mada mada dane," he could practically hear Echizen Ryoma saying now, smirking.

Shishido's usual scowl, if anything, extended. Brat. That cocky freshman probably represented Seigaku—strong, not one to boast about their prodigious skill until afterwards, with a cheeky grin. They even had the cheek to play against their opponents in handicap...an insult!

The thought of it was not anything useful in the field of cheering Shishido up. _Che—_and Shishido hit the returning ball at the other side of the court, with more strength than usual.

On the other side of the court, Hiyoshi struggled in keeping the ball in contact with his racket before slamming it back and falling back into his usual Enbu tennis stance. There was slight satisfaction in his tone as he said a simple, "Gekokujyou," seemingly pleased at hitting back Shishido's shot; and the capped boy realized with a jolt that he had probably hit harder than he had meant.

"Keh," he scoffed as he ran towards the ball, heart pounding from playing tennis for the past thirty minutes. Hiyoshi was not actually that easy to beat, a fact that left Shishido miffed—he was older than the second year, after all. However, most of his thoughts were turned to his doubles partner at the moment—where was Choutarou? Shishido had definitely seen him around the school earlier in the day, so he was quite certain that the younger boy was not absent. Atobe would have mentioned it earlier; the narcisstic buchou was fond of being on top of things, the comings and goings of his tennis team being one of the major priorities for it. In any case of all these, Choutarou being late was like Atobe suddenly quitting the tennis team.

With that in mind, the chance could be described with the word "impossible."

Shishido returned the ball with and easy forehand—it shot to the other side, slamming against the court's base; Hiyoshi had missed.

Hiyoshi gave what must have been a frustrated grunt as he wiped dripping sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. A few locks of his mushroom-shaped hair flew around at the movement, shaking sweaty drops away. He scowled as the call rang out: "Game, Shishido. One game to love!"

Then, "Buchou! Sumimasen!"

Shishido's reaction was quick: Twisting himself immediately, he followed the voice to its source, and, spotting his doubles partner—anxious, sweating, slightly but distinctly ruffled—called, "Choutarou! What took you so long?"

Heads turned slightly—Atobe, who had been taking a draught from his water bottle, paused; Mukahi turned so quickly in mid-jump that he almost broke something falling; Oshitari paused gave a quick glance before returning a serve (his unfortunate opponent was too late to realize it was coming, thus losing a point); and Jirou looked in puzzlement, with a confused, "Ne?" Surprised dotted their expressions to see their kouhai in his state.

In result, a silence quickly drifted in foggily, and wrapped itself around the courts.

A pause.

A confused pause.

The entire setting had fallen silent; it really was such a rare thing for Choutarou to be late, stunning.

It was Atobe who recollected himself first. "Ootori, explain why you are late." He turned back to the rest of the team, revealing his unfazed expression to them. "Continue training," he ordered, stoically, and the tennis players proceeded to finish their postponed—for a few moments—matches. Shishido, however, made a signal at Hiyoshi to stop. The serious player had the tennis ball clasped in one hand; he bounced it a few times, testing its buoyancy.

"Wait;" Shishido inched backwards a bit, to fall within fair earshot of Choutarou and Atobe's voices. Once satisfied, he nodded at Hiyoshi. "Serve."

He hit back the serve as soon as it had come, keenly staying at the baseline. Ears still concentrated on the conversation behind him, he attempted to double-task, listening and playing at the same time.

He let his racket's center smack the ball, then pressured his grip forward; the ball shot to the other side; Hiyoshi managed to lob it back.

Shishido stretched ran forward a bit to the ball, cursing Hiyoshi for making him leave his eavesdropping post, swung his racket in a backhand, then hastily went back to base. Snatches of conversation flowed to him as he gave an unyielding counter to Hiyoshi's next shot:

"What made you so late, ah?" That was Atobe, haughty and dignified voice demanding.

"...No...No reason...buchou..." Choutarou's voice was—and Shishido missed a ball in shock; the score became fifteen-love—devoid of emotion.

"There has to be a reason, and if you don't have a good one, you're running thirty laps around the..."

Shishido had to tear his focus away momentarily as he returned the ball with some ease. He did not need to hear the word though—Atobe was obviously threatening Choutarou with thirty laps around the court.

Shishido dove, undulating slightly, face fixed, to get to the ball.

"...Lost focus...," he managed to hear; the ball bounced before he could get to it.

"Out!" the scorekeeper exclaimed. "Fifteen-all!"

Hiyoshi grabbed another ball, face determined, and checked its buoyancy before serving...

Shishido took advantage of the free moment to eavesdrop.

"...You're..." Atobe's voice. "...I know now...you..."

Choutarou: "Atobe-buchou!—it..."

Hiyoshi served. Shishido didn't notice. A tingling source was telling him that he was nearing the climax.

"...in..." Atobe "...infatuated..."

"No!"

And Shishido heard the words before realizing that the ball was coming his way. His heart shattered quickly, even when Choutarou denied it.

Choutarou and Atobe were both looking at him at once. "Shishi—"

He couldn't tell exactly who was screaming; in a moment the ball slammed into his head, and he could only hear a voice.

"—do!" Pain burst to the side of his scalp, it hurt.

Within in instant, he fell sideways, and he could only hear shouts of sudden surprise and alarm; there was a loud gasp from Hiyoshi; and footsteps were charging at him.

Voices, footsteps...

Sound...

"Shishido-san!" Sound again...this time, louder. He couldn't see. All within view of him was the worn green color on the hardcourt; there was a throbbing in his head; the ball bounced away innocently—his senses were in confusion. Painful. The ground of the tennis court seemed unforgiving—

Shishido had enough sense to anticipate the coming ground; bracing himself for the hard impact, his senses blazed back into a blur.

Then he landed into something soft. Confusion came. Was the court this soft? No...ridiculous.

"Shishido-san?" At the voice, the said boy suddenly realized what he was in. Arms were gripping him with a good hold, his head, his shoulders. The grip was firm, yet tender, and it didn't let go.

Shishido's heart skyrocketed. It immediately pounded against his chest, so hard that he could hear it—it and the rushing blood roaring in his ears. His heart slammed against his ribcage, ferociously increasing speed.

"Shishido-san?" the voice repeated.

The capped boy—his cap was still on, strangely enough, somehow—daringly cracked an eye open.

The first thing he saw was a face. And eyes, brown, mild eyes. The gentle face was crinkled slightly in concern, and silver hair was visible above a brow.

Shishido had to struggle to keep from hyperventilating. His first thought was, _Choutarou's holding me._

"Shishido-san, are you okay?" The silver-haired boy's eyes shone with confusion when, in movement, his arm brushed lightly against his chest.

"Chou—Choutarou," Shishido breathed. His breath ruffled against Choutarou's hair; the bangs twitched.

His kouhai frowned. "Shishido-san...your heart is beating really fast.... Are you okay?"

And then a word came back to the capped boy. It just came, when Choutarou frowned, on cue.

_Infatuated._

_Choutarou..._

--

_**PT: -Shot- Boring chapter? -Shotshotshot- Wanted to work on my detail, and at the same time I wanted to set the plot up nicely. So...reviews? Please?**_

**_I wanted to work on a more complex writing style, you know. Done talking. Review._**

_**-Hops off to drool over a picture**_ _**of Nakagauchi Masataka and Baba Toru 8D-**_

_**Note to self: Don't forget to buy Red Bull. Works better than tea.**_


	3. Buying Love

_**PT: Chapter twoooo!! WWWHHHEEEEEE 8DDDD -Random person in the background yells, "WHAT TOOK YOU SO LONG!!"-**_

_**Thanks to everyone for the reviews!! -Is jumping up and down- I see that Shishido getting hit in the head drew a lot of attention xD**_

_Disclaimer: I am CONVINCED that I'm not some guy in Japan who writes manga—CONVINCED, YOU HEAR ME?! JUST TRY AND DISSUADE ME!!_

_I ripped this right off another writer's challenge, thanks._

**ezylrybbit **Julio? XD And thanks :D I'm glad you like my new writing style :)

**cooties n' screams **Thanks~~ :DDD Glad you think it's detailed! I was afraid that I still have a rushed pace...xD

**Sileny **x) Poor Shishido.

**Charmane **Yeah, but I hesitated; Choutarou and Shishido's personalities seem to contradict what I wanted to mark them as XD Baba Toru and Nakagauchi Masataka are HOT 8D

**iiloveyouBABY **x) Somehow the thought of Shishido as Juliet is...appealing...to me xD I believe that Kishimoto Hana is going to turn out as a major Mary Sue; I kind of dislike her already. Thanks! :D

--

Shishido remained reclining at the bench, against his will. The other regulars had had a trying time attempting to persuade and force their teammate into staying out of practice momentarily; he had fought, he had struggled, insisting that he was fine, when his headache seemed to clearly get worse moment by moment. Oshitari had claimed that he could "feel Shishido's head throbbing" under his fingers upon touching the forehead. It was, of course, ridiculous, but rational in its own sense—Oshitari had at least made his point; Atobe had made his decision final and threatened the hot-headed regular with his position. Shishido was not willing to give up his hard-earned regular spot once more, even if the threat was not serious, and so gave in.

Shishido watched the tennis team practice, his dark scowl deep. They all looked grand on the courts, the players with their efficient moves, sweat glistening on their skin and rolling to the ground in torrents, all panting with the effort of stretching their stamina in long battle.

The capped boy felt his envy run green, and bitterness run red; he didn't like to feel helpless, or useless, anything that singled him out in such a way.

Staring sourly at the movement of a ball in motion, he absentmindedly raised his head to where he had been hit, rubbing his fingers against a forming lump. It was hard, hard and painful; Shishido held back a wince, face twisted.

_Damn me and my carelessness. _His gaze landed on Hiyoshi, who was now playing Atobe. He looked just in time to see the buchou return a well-aimed shot. _Che, I was ahead of the brat by one game. _His scorching glare visibly spun a vivid tale of his hunger for a complete match with his kouhai. If it was that hard to beat the junior, and—to Shishido's awful humiliation—to be hit that badly in the head by him, this was something that could not be forgotten nor left alone. There was much pride to be won back.

A slight breeze picked up over the school grounds, strong enough to ruffle hair on scalps and leaves on trees.

Shishido grimaced again, and removed his hand from his head; he let it relax on the wood of the bench—

And then he saw him.

Choutarou, he was sweating slightly as well as anyone else—running his round of fifty laps. Nevertheless, he looked quite calm...but not calm as in at ease. Instead it was cold—cold calm, faraway. It froze Shishido's babbling brook of thought; after all, although his kouhai was cold, the boy was not faraway in this way: He seemed pained, and that was a rare occasion indeed.

The word infatuated came again—_infatuated—_and he flinched within, a theory coming to mind. _He could be lovesick, _he reasoned; _that might be why he was late in the first place. _He frowned in thought, wanting to deny the fact.

However, there was no denying Choutarou's face expression, nor his actions lately, nor that look in his eyes that spoke of longing.

_Choutarou's proud in love! _Shishido found himself thinking desperately, anything to deny that Choutarou would even _like _someone else—because he himself—

Shishido added, _He wouldn't love someone else first, he's the proud kind in love. How would...well...._

Shishido struggled with a sea of thoughts, still in denial. A cold feeling of dread crept over him, ready to slap him into consciousness, to get him to finally admit. He refused to succumb.

_God damn it, Choutarou... Don't you dare fall in love...that's stupid!—_a weak retort.

Unknowingly, Shishido flushed a faint red; he noticed the heat running up his neck, ears, and face but he never gave it a second thought.

--

Choutarou absentmindedly picked at a bit of lint on his backpack, still remembering a hazy blend of onyx fire and blazing curls.

His mind was foggy; he hardly noticed Taki next to him, said boy inspecting his well-cared for nails.

Fiery curls. Obsidian eyes. Fire. Obsidian.

He was obsessed.

Obsessed, addicted—falling.

"Oi, Choutarou!" The boy jumped as his doubles partner tapped him on the shoulder.

"Shishido-san!" He drew in a sharp breath, snapped away from his reverie. His heart rammed thrice into his ribcage before his pulse calmed, and drew back to a steady flow. He turned.

Shishido looked impatient. "Choutarou, quit daydreaming, let's go."

"A—Aaa." Choutarou hastily obeyed. It was only at that moment that he noticed his surroundings—everyone was leaving—Atobe staying behind with Kabaji, Hiyoshi gathering up some extra tennis balls (and avoiding eye contact with everyone present), and Jirou, who was rubbing a wristband with passion.

"Let's go, Choutarou," Shishido repeated, heading for the door. Choutarou nodded and followed.

Outside, the clouds were clustered together tightly, muffling the sky from view; the world was gray and windy, but the sun shone determinedly through a breech in the cloudy cover. Choutarou took one look at the misty ball of light, and immediately the memories of flaming curls came to mind.

Flaming curls.

Hair full of luster, an incredible shade of orange, settling about like a blaze—

"Chou—ta—rou!" A voice—abrupt, breeching—reached him and dragged him back to reality. "Don't stand there all day, damn it!"

"Sorry, Shishido-san!" Choutarou apologized automatically. Shishido, he noted, was already ahead of him by a decidedly far enough distance; and he looked absolutely vexed; Choutarou hastily went after him. He hardly wanted to irk his doubles partner.

Once there, Shishido stared at him, opened his mouth, and—suddenly, Choutarou felt a cold breeze tear the air, raising goosebumps in a telltale sign of dread to come—said, "What's going on?"

The taller boy blinked, confused at once—but not fully. "What"—he blinked again, suddenly aware that he had nothing to say next, mind blank—"are...you...," he forced out; finding a lump in his throat, he finished, "...what do you mean?" The words slipped out easily at last, like running water freed from a dam, but an icy chill ran down Choutarou's spine, and another followed down to his stomach, where it settled firmly. The second-year regular's mind went blank; his jaw slackened round the mouth; blood roared, a red river, in his veins; his heart froze momentarily. Choutarou did not need to inquire of Shishido's intentions; for he knew very well, somewhere below his ignorant surface.

He knew, he knew, he knew—all too well.

Choutarou—in a more conscious state of mind—would have not been as surprised—and truly surprised he was!—as he was presently when his partner gave him an incredulous look—as if it were all too obvious—and replied, "You're blank as Kabaji!

"Choutarou," he continued, scowling, before an answer emerged from protesting lips, "you've been like this for a while now—just today, you were _late_ for practice, of all the demented things that can happen!—and your grades are DROPPING! I saw your grades on your sensei's desk yesterday, Choutarou! Do you know what your conduct is now? your tests? Even your homework sucks balls! You do it, but it's all badly done! This isn't like you Choutarou!

"You've been walking around, dreamy-eyed, like you're asleep with your eyes open or something. Choutarou, I need to know—_now—_what the hell is going on with you?"

Shishido halted, tongue beginning to dry, to catch his breath. He closed his mouth firmly, wanting to speak more, but he was already aware himself that he had decidedly spoken more than was needed—looking at Choutarou with a steadily growing blaze in the eyes, he waited for an answer.

Choutarou blinked, silently, mind gradually moving from the mist of haze. He opened his mouth—one second, two second, three seconds, time ticked away—and closed it again; taken aback and at a loss for any sensible words.

Shishido raised an eyebrow. "Choutarou..." He wanted to explode; his insides wanted to emerge; he wanted to break apart; he wanted so much too to come out with it—nagging questions were breaking free from their bonds, demanding an answer to reach them— "Choutarou..." His breath hitched as his said partner looked at him with quiet eyes.

A voice hissed in the deep recesses of Shishido's mind, urging him, encouraging him—"Say it, just say it outright; stop beating around the bush"—pushing his true intention towards the outer parts.

"Choutarou..." Say it... "You"—"Say it, say it..."—"well..."—"NOW!"—"You're—infatuated or something...aren't you?" The small voice that was so insistent a while ago gave a small chuckle in satisfaction before sinking back into oblivion, contentedly purring.

And those words—those words, those words that were so calmly driven from the mouth—jolted the one on the receiving end at last: "What—Shishido-san...I—what—no—you...," he spluttered, eyes widening.

"Choutarou"—Shishido's stomach twisted in a knot of hot and cold—"who is it then?"

"No one!" Hesitation was clear, and eyes told an opposing story.

"WHO?—IS?—IT?"

Choutarou shook his head, quickly; "I can't..."

"Choutarou! Just say it, it's not going to kill you if you do!"

"But—"

Shishido's next attempt drowned out anything more to be exchanged—"SPILL IT ALREADY!" And Shishido found that he was shaking—with what could have been anxiety, he was not so sure—shaking, preparing for an eruption of the emotions; he was losing it more easily than usual, perhaps because Choutarou was hiding something from him; and something that was troubling him in obvious ways.

The next one to talk was Choutarou—he bit his lip, and Shishido could see now that the boy was desperate; so Choutarou murmured something. Inaudible, but Shishido strained his ears, sure that he should hear the answer—and cause—of the present problems.

"Kishimoto Hana."

_Kishimoto?—_Shishido had heard of her, seen her around the school; an outgoing girl—kind, decidedly pretty, oblivious to those who fell for her, smart—yes, the girl with hair like spilling fire, eyes like obsidian. In Choutarou's year, but known around the regulars, however vague—she had a brother in the tennis club, not a regular.

Most people liked her; she was charming, a likable individual; Shishido wryly thought of her as "all right."

One flaw he could point out with impertinence: She was too flirtatious. Not that she acted interested, but he swore he had seen her staring at more than one boy with craving over the years he had known her the way he did (which was a rather vague way). If any word could describe her, it was flirtatious; she pursued love with a passion.

Among words, flirtatious. Among terms, wishes for enticement.

"Kishimoto Hana?" Shishido spoke the words slowly, afraid that he would lose the precious name. The key to Choutarou's door.

The taller boy drew a long breath and nodded. "Yes," he confirmed, quietly.

"Explain?" A leaf, blown by the swirling winds, landed in his hair, moving his attention; the capped boy swatted it away irritably.

Choutarou bit his lip, again contacting hesitation—but he had already begun, told the name, no turning back.

He took no more time for delay, and launched into an explanation.

"Hana-san...she's...she doesn't have interest in me...I can't talk to her, I can't say anything. She's pretty...and really nice...but we never talk... Shishido-san!—I'm always staring at her in class; and I can't help it; I really want to stop...now I just want to talk to her...I...well...she..."

Shishido stared at him attentively, letting every word accumulate in his brain, gathering the meaning in every syllable.

_Choutarou...if you got together with her...oh kami..._

It hurt Shishido's heart to look at Choutarou—the hurt, the desperation, the result of one with an addiction to drugs—it was all too much to bear.

_If you got together with her...would you—_would you?_—be happy? Would it...well...heal your heart...and stuff? _Shishido detested how it sounded, how he thought such _dramatic _thoughts—too dramatic, too _sappy._

Dramatic.

Sappy.

_This whole fucking situation is dramatic and sappy. _Shishido scowled inwardly.

Bitter thoughts flowed in—_whore...faith...Kishimoto...fine...—_and he came to a decision.

--

"Oi," a boy drawled, approaching his sister, "Hana."

Kishimoto Hana looked up from her homework, which she had been absentmindedly poring over. "What?" She looked annoyed.

"You know"—the boy paused, feeling in his pocket for the precious yen that someone had given him for this—"there's this guy on the tennis team—"

"I don't care about it," Hana grumbled, more than tired of her brother's constant talk of his team; she had no interest, and wanted to save her ears for better things than to listen to rambling, bubbling, chattering voices reaching them.

"Hana—"

"No."

"It's not about the tennis team."

"Liar!" she sneered. "Why do I have to have an onii-chan like you? Freaking a. Kami must really hate me. Go away, Daisuke."

"Eh..." Daisuke smirked. "...No."

"Get. Out." Hana grit her teeth. "Of. My. Room. Damn it."

"He'shotandawesome, andhisnameisOotoriChoutarou," Daisuke explained quickly. He smirked, but made an attempt to hide it immediately, fully aware of his action.

Hana, provoked, grumbled, "The fuck?"

"Ootori Choutarou. He's hot, you know. Nice guy...you should meet him...."

"I have better things to do than freaking meet up with your fellow brats," Hana said bluntly, ignoring the clear fact that she was contradicting herself—Daisuke was older than her, by fully a year.

"He's your age." Daisuke smirked again, in triumph, for he knew just where the conversation was driving towards; Hana was playing into the pinnacle with frightening precision; more frightening, still, was how she was so clueless with it.

"Did I mention, Hana? he's in your class, the one with the silver hair..." _Score, _he cheered, as Hana's head shot up.

"Choutarou?" she said in realization. "Ootori Choutarou?—that cute one with all those—"

"Yup," Daisuke said.

"Oh!"

Daisuke's smirk widened; and he had a somewhat harder time this time in keeping it under control. "Later...," and he swaggered off into the hallways, attempting to hold back buoyant cheers.

He did not know how Shishido Ryou knew about how he read his sister's diary, but it earned him enough yen to get that new laptop he wanted so badly. He was not concerned about hurting Hana either—she had been out with plenty of boys before, always ending up single again.

--

"Yo, Ootori-kun." Hana smiled down at the sweating boy that was sitting at a bench; she liked to looked at the tennis players; and actually being within the courts was something of a heaven for her. This particular player was not as appealing to her as most—but he would do, decidedly.

"K—Kishimoto-san!" Choutarou froze midway through putting down his water bottle; staring up at her like she was some angel, some goddess.

"Meet me in front of the school gates today, after school, 'kay?"

"Oh—all right—but why—"

"Great! It's a date!" and she walked off, before the boy left behind could even scream.

--

_**PT: Don't ask about Jirou and the wristband; that'll come into play later on—of course, you may know about it; it's quite...canon, I think xD**_

**_To explain this part, since it's not so original: "Among words, flirtatious. Among terms, wishes for enticement." It's ripped off directly from the Chinese saying that I've never actually heard, just read the English translation somewhere: "Among warriors, Lu Bu. Among steeds, Red Hare"; in Chinese history (and a historical novel, Romance of Three Kingdoms) Lu Bu was a great warrior in the Three Kingdoms Period, and his steed was Red Hare, an awesome-sauce horse. Basically, the saying states that they're both the best in their respective classes—warriors and steeds. I thought it would fit, so yeah.... Another line, "asleep with your eyes open," is halfway ripped off how this one guy in Romance of Three Kingdoms died; he was sleeping with his eyes open when he was assassinated. That just came to mind while trying to get a Shishido-like way of pointing out that Choutarou's eyes are glassy._**


	4. Denial Is Best Countered

_**PT: Sorry T__T Writer's Block again. –Sighs- I wrote the third chapter with some ease—and I was still working on it—when my computer broke down because my antivirus was a fag—stupid viruses. All my poor documents are gone Q~Q –Sniffs- And so my computer's been fixed and has a new hard drive. And all my documents are gone forever. Joy. Now I have Microsoft Office again. After working with OpenOffice since getting this computer. Hmph. Oh well. And I need to apologize for how short this chapter is compared to the others X__x**_

_Disclaimer: Konomi Takeshi owns Prince of Tennis—only Konomi Takeshi could be so audacious as to call the new PoT series "New Prince of Tennis."_

_It's the crack writer Jazzy herself that gave the challenge._

**chibiz97 **Jirou pwns all :D Even though he's a jumpy obsessive fanboy—but that's why we all love him :D

**iiloveyouBABY **SILVER PAIR FTW 8D Kishimoto Hana...can't wait to see her character develop....

**Charmane **Choutarou's still an adolescent...xD But I wonder myself...x_X Yeah, there's going to be some ----- Pair :D Just for the sake of the plot. I meant what's best to describe her using a term and a single adjective. Romance of Three Kingdoms, —三国演义 by Luo Guanzhong. It's one of the Four Classic Novels of China :D I watched the 1995 series adaption when I was four...

**dig a pony **I'm hopeless xD –shot- Eunice?—I have a friend with that name...xD Well, her brother's a random I-don't-care-about-him guy...but why not? XD

**ezylrybbit **XD Shishido will grow to be proud of that title 8D JE .__. Oh well. –Waves banner for them- GO CORRUPTION! GO SEXY JE BOYS!! GO J-POP!!! 8D

**M3lanch0ly **Oh yesh! 8D And Silver is absolute luff~ SWEET AND SILVER WILL CONQUER THE EARTH. ALONG WITH PLATINUM, PERFECT, AND TANGO~ 8D

--

Choutarou did wait. He stood at the entrance of his school, his tall frame leaning back on the stone wall. He didn't realize it, but he was sweating profusely—his palms were damp from perspiration. When he became aware, he pressed them against the wall. It brought little comfort.

And when he heard his name, everything began awkwardly.

"Yo, Choutarou."

"Kishimoto-san!" He started and stared, as if the approaching figure was a goddess. To him, in fact, she was. It would be indeed a waste of words to again describe her as he saw her—he worshipped her and the ground she walked on, the air she breathed, the words she spoke...it was unnecessary, and so very obvious.

She gave a small smile—irritated and yet...charmed—saying, "Hana, Choutarou. Hana!"

"Hana-san...," came the uncertain reply; it was returned by a smile; a tight smile, but a genuine one. A smile, nevertheless.

"You're cute," Hana said. (It was unknown whether she was making an observation or granting a compliment.)

Choutarou at once felt the blaze that spread beneath his skin at the remark; and suddenly his head felt very light; the feeling came: That feeling of fireworks exploding under his skin, in his stomach; sparks flying from limb to limb to limb...

Then the hand came.

That pale, smooth, flawless hand. It landed on his, feeling cool against his, like polished marble.

Inside, Choutarou swooned, and his thoughts, his consciousness teetered by the cusp of oblivion.

He thought he saw a birthmark—faded red, quasi round, at the tip of a finger but he couldn't tell...

Then there was a glance at her palm—he thought he saw a scar there as well...

Then the sensation of being pulled away—moving—legs feeling like wheels there to support him—

_Kami-sama, _he managed to think, trying to drag himself out to reality, _I really am obsessed with her...._

--

Shishido pulled out his cell phone, glaring at the cracked and scratched screen—(he was careless, and had dropped it many times during its torrential life)—in displeasure. Running a calloused finger down a particularly prominent split, he held back an inward sigh—and turned his mind back to the current situation: For the umpteenth time he had not been able to remember his math homework (and he silently cursed the subject's existence).

Grudgingly, swept a thumb under the lid and flipped the phone open with a practiced ease. He dialed automatically, pressing the numbers habitually. Then his fingers skidded to an ungraceful halt; his concentration had slipped.

A sigh. _Damn it, Ryou, _he scolded himself, choosing to be blunt, _if you like him so much, get over it. He's going out with that...Hana person, for kami's sake._

He hit the green button and held the device to his ear, waiting for the tones to stop and for Jirou to pick up.

A sound that was almost like a click.

"Moshi moshi?" Jirou's sleepy, lowered voice suggested that he had woken up—how he had been awakened by the sound of his ringing cell phone was beyond Shishido, but he pushed that aside with ease.

"Ne, Jirou," he said bluntly, "what did we get for homework in math today?" He grimaced; _math _was poison on his tongue.

"Ah..." A second passed, and Shishido twitched irritably. Jirou was not fully awake yet...

Then he heard pages flipping before the drowsy answer of "Page four hundred and ninety eight" reached him; then a mumble of "Marui-kun...."

_You and your obsession, _Shishido thought. _Fanboy._

Like himself.

Him and his obsession for Choutarou—_damn it, shut up, Ryou; _he cut himself off with the sharp retort. The thought of adding to himself to _forget it _flashed into his mind briefly, but he forced it away—decidedly, the subject should remain as pristine as it still could.

"Marui-kun is so—!"

"Cool," Shishido broke in. "Awesome. Good for you; go back to sleep."

The boy on the other end needed no second telling—there was a shark clack (that pained Shishido's ears) and then snores. Shishido snorted derisively and hung up.

As he turned to take care of his damned homework, he tried and failed to stop the smallest of smiles spreading across his face—he only hoped that the smile was not as big as he suspected.

--

They held each other's hands, gazing up at the moon. Gazing; the moon was beautiful, and seemed too tranquil for life, which was a folly next to it. The rabbit in the moon was at work, and the shining white palace around it was at its height of beauty. It was a symbol of love, had been so throughout the time of man and then some.

Choutarou had a thousand thoughts running through his head, all of the person next to him, whose face had the right to challenge the moon. He could talk—he could babble for hours and hours, in a way so much unlike him; so lovestruck was he. But the words never came, they were overwhelming—so much that Choutarou found that he could not say anything. So he kept quiet, and just looked at the cold orb in the sky, his hand entwined with a cool hand of fleshy marble. His thoughts never strayed from Hana.

_I love you, _he wanted to say, but it was too soon. He stayed silent.

_You're more beautiful than the moon, and warmer _pushed at his throat, but he thought it too—

_Cheesy._

And soon he settled only into the moment of silence. It was luxurious to sit by Hana—he still could not believe his _luck—_and just stare at the stretch of black velvet, a glowing ornament fastened to it.

Shishido had seen the velvet scattered with diamonds.

He had mentioned it only once—but Choutarou kept precious the memory of the way his partner's features had softened when speaking of the country sky. In the country, he had said, there were no city lights to keep the sky dark. At night there were no lights, not enough to speak of, and the world was plunged into darkness.

Then there were the nights when stars would come out.

There were a lot, Shishido had stated bluntly, but Choutarou had not missed the merest glow in his chocolate eyes. There were so many, they clustered together and shone through the night.

_It was...beautiful. You need to see it. The dark nights here—they can't compare to those stars._

Choutarou stopped in his train of thought. Shishido. He was thinking of Shishido. He was thinking of Shishido—and the rare moment of tenderness that had snuck up upon him.

_Focus, _Choutarou thought to himself, sternly, and the thought of Hana beside him was an anchor to the present.

He continued to look at the sky afterwards, though he began longing for a starry sky instead.

--

"How was it?" Shishido asked, carelessly tossing a pebble to the ground.

"Mm?"

"Your _date." _

"Oh..." Choutarou tried not to shift. For the most part he was successful. Shishido was confronting him. He hadn't even told him that he was going out.

Going out.

He had done just that. It was new.

The _date _had felt good. Just so _good, _sweetly _good._

He couldn't describe it, it was just a delicious blur in his mind.

Shishido snorted before his partner could respond; and stalked off to his next class.

--

"How did it go?"

Shishido hastily took a few ample steps back from the faceful of Jirou that was shoved into him. The grin was large—he envied it.

"What do you mean?" he asked, scowling; though he already knew the answer.S

Jirou's grin—if anything at all—widened into a wide, toothy crescent. "You know!"

_Yes I do, _Shishido thought.

"Choutarou went all moony-eyed when—Wait." The realization hit him, with astonishing force. "How the hell did you—"

"I thought it was obvious," Jirou said, innocently. The childish gleam that his eyes housed returned home. "I mean, it was a bit like me and Marui-kun."

Shishido snorted.

"You want him to be happy, right?" That grin—_that grin—_Shishido wanted to slap it off.

"Why do you care?" the scowling boy snapped, irritation prickling beneath his skin.

The next answer took him back, and with such force that it almost hurt.

"Because," Jirou said, his face sparkling with honesty, "you're jealous. You really want him to like you. But you like to see him happy, but you're not happy when he doesn't notice you, and he's with someone else.

"And gender doesn't matter—Marui-kun accepted me!" He beamed. "Ootori-kun likes you. He just doesn't know how far it goes. But you like him a lot, and you know it; you just can't accept it." He grinned—

And ran off, waving—"See you later!"—just as the late bell rang.

The sound never really reached Shishido's mind, as he stood there with an empty head.

--

_A kiss._

_Choutarou would have called it too abrupt if he had not been stunned—he found that kissing was blissful and wonderful—he found that he loved it, every moment of it, and he could hardly keep himself still._

_It was a quiet act, innocent and chaste._

_Just to press his lips against a soft—and _perfect—_pair filled with a fresh and natural taste of cold vanilla._

_They did not go beyond their lips, but they stayed together, locked in an embrace, for what seemed to be a long time—perhaps it was. There was that natural scent of pure white, and Choutarou found an unnatural love for vanilla._

_It made him wonder how chocolate tasted._

_Vanilla. Swirls of white._

_It was heavenly to kiss someone, and he did not go into detail—he just enjoyed it, through and through._

_And yet, he still wondered—_

--

"Daisuke-kun. How many people did your sister date?"

"I'm not sure. I'd lost count. But maybe she'll stay with your partner—he's different than the others."

"How so?"

"He's just nicer. The others were too demanding. Hana's the dominative type. Hell, she's too sure of herself, and does things at her own pace."

"What if she leaves him for another guy? I've seen her with more than one person over the year."

"Well, he's got you, doesn't he?"

With a nonchalant shrug, Daisuke hung up.

On the other end, Shishido's brow furrowed.

--

_**PT: Stars. I went camping upstate last month—and holy shit, it was dark without the usual city lights. During one night the sky was filled with so many stars...I can't fully describe it...but it was amazing! I have no idea where the hell you guys live, or how often you guys get to see a sky undisturbed by manmade lights—but damn, I was so amazed, I couldn't take my eyes away from the sky. I'm from the city, and I've never seen the sky like this no matter how many times I'd been upstate. It was incredible. As for the moon...eh, it's Mid-Autumn Festival...if it weren't for that bag of moon cakes slung on my house's front doorknob, I would've forgotten completely. Ironically enough, China's Maru Kaite Chikyuu came out at around the same time (and that's completely off-fandom, so I'll stop there "D). Math—that's not exactly canon, but I hate math, so yeah...and Shishido's cell phone—that's the condition mine is in "D **_


	5. Stripped of Soul

_**PT: Yes, you may kill me.**_

_Disclaimer: Prince of Tennis—well, Konomi Takeshi...er..."D Well, he never took Japanese classes in America, did he?_

_Jazzy owns it. Totally. _

**Charmane **Yup –nods vigorously- Um...to be sure...who's the lovesick fool? –Shot- xD Thanks for sticking to the story! =D

**jassy **Yeah, I updated 8) –Shot- At last. After you prodded me like crazy. –Shot again- But it worked, didn't it?—sort of? XD Eunice...um...okay....

**ezylrybbit **I like your crazy writing –thumbs-up- It really is awesome 8D And the night sky...oh, we depraved city folk xD –Shot- Oh—so that's what happened? xD –shot- That's not asking too much, totally n_n

--

"_Well, he's got you, doesn't he?"_

The words were haunting—they ghosted, a full line of spoken words, through Shishido's mind. He was reminded of little else.

"_...he's got you..._

"_...doesn't he?"_

Shishido's mouth formed the words; he was not one to let his emotions take control of him even physically, but—

"_...he's got you, doesn't he?"_

_Doesn't he?_

In answer, he took a huge breath—filling his nostrils with oxygen, tensing as he did, before blowing it all out. He mimicked the process several times before his fist relaxed on the desk before him.

_He'd better._

--

He saw him brush past him during practice, looking incredibly happy—insanely happy. He seemed aware of little else—when he played tennis with him, the red threads dipped in gold snapped. Silver stars scanned the sky above Choutarou's head, and Shishido watched, appalled and thunderstruck.

Choutarou was so lovesick.

Yet his heart ground against his ribs every time he saw the silver hair.

Days passed.

It was always the same.

Something was at work—something in the middle, cracking the ground, splitting it in half.

It gnawed like a pandemic; it plagued Shishido, and he could only watch in disgust when Choutarou left after school, hand-in-hand with the laughing dandelion; her head thrown back and goldenrod in the sun. Choutarou staring like Romeo to Juliet, Paris to Helen. They were wrapped in some sort of silvery mist, ghostly and wispy; he could try to touch them and the mist would slick his hand in oil.

An oily silver mist.

How fascinating. How disgusting.

Where was he on the plains of Choutarou's silver life?

Shishido was unselfish. Choutarou was all he could ever want—a partner, a friend, a portion of his soul. A lover of light intimacy. Bereaved as he was, he could enjoy the happiness that sickened and pleased him—all to borders.

He thought it all a lie—he should not be jealous.

--

"Stop fussing."

"Pardon?" Shishido shot something of a glare at Oshitari, who only gazed back quietly.

"It's too obvious, Shishido. You're worried; you've been fussing about like a mother hen—like Oishi-kun from Seigaku."

It was too abrupt—but Shishido sometimes preferred frankness above all else; it was just that this bluntness pricked at his pride. Most times it did, but this...offended him above anything else, in a way that lit a blaze inside him. Hotheaded as he was, he was not usually put off so quickly, and by Oshitari-senpai above all.

He snapped, "Will you people just stop talking about this? Kami-sama!" He almost threw his arms up in the air, irritated and worn. Ever since Choutarou had gone out with Kishimoto...he could not describe it...but there had been a sudden shift in their relationship, a sudden snapping of the crimson threads. How long had it been?—merely a week? It seemed longer, it seemed endless. Poison.

Oshitari's gaze did not waver. He stared owlishly; almost stoically—it was unnerving.

Shishido fixed a stare that was almost a glare at him. He itched to release his stress, though it was easy to suppress—stress was sly, and Shishido lacked the craft for it, but he respected his senpai; this was clear. He bowed his head and turned away in disgust. A hand shifted to pull his cap lower over his eyes.

"I need to go home," he muttered, then looked up for Atobe.

His stomach and chest both wanted to implode.

--

Choutarou stared. Stared.

Still staring. Always staring.

"What...," he croaked. What to say, what to say...

Was it the moon that was shattering in martyrdom?—or was he simply killing it with his own stupidity?—so his own heart would stay intact?

Suddenly the world was plunged into apocalypse.

_You fool._

--

His feet were acting of their own accord; his mind was a whirl of nothing; all he was conscious of was the pulse of his heart knocking against his chest, his blood rushing beneath his skin. Everything was a blur; there was this and that, and that one...he couldn't care. He couldn't _make_ himself care—so his mind slipped into the abyss; and then there was nothing.

--

Light. Heat.

He blinked.

White. Brown.

He blinked.

Shishido.

"Awake?" It wasn't a real piece of speech; it was a grunt.

"Shishido-san," he managed. His throat was plugged with sawdust. It was an unpleasant feeling. He coughed once. It hardly helped.

"Um..." He blinked again, just to clear the film that was building up in his eyes. His vision cleared. "Can I get...," he croaked; then choked on his own breath and went into a fit of coughs. Shishido waited with some rare display of patience. He only handed a bottle of water to his partner; the latter nodded gratefully and made to open it.

A few good moments ambled by, stealthily, calmly...and still Shishido hardly moved an inch except to put a hand on Choutarou's perspired—(it hadn't time to dry)—back. The rare display of open affection—or concern—did not go unnoticed, however dull the awareness.

When the brunette spoke (his trademark cap hanging at the edge of a chair) his voice was still rough. "Choutarou, what the hell were you _doing_ out there?"

Choutarou didn't answer—he downed the water hastily and was struggling to contain a tide of choking.

Shishido stared impatiently; the moment of tenderness was shattered, blown away in the wind. "Choutarou." The bottle was empty.

The silver-haired teen, despite his best efforts, could not contain a sudden warmth spreading up his face. A flush. Imagining how red he must've looked, he made haste in looking around the room, finally taking in his surroundings.

It didn't take him long to realize his setting—(in fact, it was somewhat obvious; like a worn scene used in countless movies). Shishido's room; he had come here many a time when school was done and put aside.

Ands when Choutarou hastily looked back, remembering his companion's presence, the latter was—mercifully frank. He said, his words blunt, "What happened?"—his chocolate gaze like liquid pools of ice; they were endless, the depths that led to emotions one could never reach. The scowl was traced harshly into the boy's face—the curl of his lips, the folds on his brow. He was grave, he was concerned; and only one who knew him as well as Choutarou could tell.

Choutarou wasn't thinking—but his friend's words were put into his senses; and the events of the dusk were then pouring into his mind, roaring: Her face, looking at him in sorrow... Two of them, pressing each other ad kissing, embracing; savoring the feel of lips and skin... Running, running after freezing where he had stood... Misty night air, the stars in the sky... Blankness...darkness....

Tears tugged at his lids, his orbs; but he was still there, in that room, with that boy; _don't cry. _He couldn't cry, no matter how much his hurting heart told him to.

_But Shishido-san would understand._

"Choutarou." A hand on his shoulder. It was warm, and heavy; it was like a jolt.

The silver-haired boy jumped on the chair he was on, fallen back into reality. "Shishido-san." He looked back at the brown eyes; they softened.

Shishido Ryou—

Choutarou could always trust him. He was his friend, and the best; his partner. Always. But it didn't seem to be enough.

There was adrenaline coursing through his veins—the loss that night had wrung out a longing—of want, of need—of lust.

It couldn't be anything else, and the insanity of it all was enough to kill.

So it was a wonder that Shishido only complied when Choutarou pushed him onto the bed with a desperate frenzy of stripping bare.

--

Ice is nothing without fire.

There is no love without hate.

There is a scale, a Yin-and-Yang, of this law; this melted decree of all that is. And always one loses himself to this balance, for the two are cunning guisers.

Which is which?

Shishido's thoughts were whirling around these very thoughts, though never truly touching them—they were beyond the glass and past the rainbow.

Rainbows. Shishido was too busy to be derisive.

But it was dreamlike, it was too surreal to be the world. He was too young, this was too foreign...how could the one closest to him be so foreign?—he was so unaware, he was wondering where he was as he worked and accepted; the softness twisted around him, moist and unpleasantly hot. Unreal....

Was this a fantasy?—or a figment of a long-gone nightmare? It was hauntingly beautiful and hateful at the same time...how could anyone love like this?

How could pain be so lovely, so like an elixir of life? It was ambrosia.

He grabbed the body, felt the long curves and wet nooks, burying his face somewhere where he inhaled. It was too beautiful.

At some point he fondled sleek lengths of leather, unsure of what it was but always fascinated, always impassioned. It was chaos.

Beautiful.

The deep ocean and the blue sky—wide expanses; endless, endless, always so _endless._ A weight pressing down, silver misted clouds, silver pressed oceans. There was too little space but _who cared?_ A heavenly corner of the sea was greater than a universe of hell.

The breaths were silver.

At some point it hurt too much—and then his need—he only realized it then what it was—was heightened, and then he was left with a shuddering lump that quickly fell away; something precious was lost. He groped forward, whining—_he—_and then there was something on his cheek. Hot or cold, it was oily.

"I can't use you like this."

--

Shishido did not see Choutarou the next day. He had awakened to find himself clean and fuzzy-minded, among heavenly sheets.

He almost forgot.

--

The cracked phone was in his hand; the boy with the blue cap was once again pressing the numbers, watching the pixels shift to clone them. "Pick up." Pressed against his ears.

One tone.

Two.

Three times.

Ichi...ni...san...

Cuatro...cinco...seis...

Qi...ba...jiu...

He waited. He waited because there was nothing else to do.

--

Shishido had once told Choutarou, ever the listener, _Life is full of mistakes._ They were dangling at some high place far away, far above, where they could pretend to be God and touch the skies. If only they could be that perfect; the height threatened the sensation of falling and being mortal.

_So many errors. So little justice to compensate for them._

--

_**PT: Guisers...I actually found the word in a book once, so I'll defy Word...actually it was a pretty big thing. Ever read The Seeing Stone? I actually wrote part of this chapter during the summer in Alaska :D I mean, on the ship to Alaska. Yeah, I was just sitting reading in the stateroom, then grabbed my notebook and started writing like hell. Kudos if you get which part. Super kudos if you get it all exactly. Happy late holidays and Western New Year :)**_


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